


Of Hide-and-Seeks

by LindseyWells



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Childhood Trauma, Denial, Depression, Disappointment, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Purging, Shame, Slow To Update, Starvation, Trauma, binge eating, chewing and spitting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25226614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LindseyWells/pseuds/LindseyWells
Summary: Spain's smile speaks of an indestructible vitality, yet his eating habits tell a very different story. It takes Romano his whole life plus a 10-minute wait at a bus stop to figure this out.
Relationships: Gerita (Mentioned), South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dear readers, welcome to this weird, historically not quite accurate Spamano story that I've wanted to write for years. Please note the warnings listed above and don't read this fic if you're easily triggered. The first chapter might still be a kind of 'introductionary' chapter, but later chapters will be much more darker.
> 
>  **I'd also like to thank _Nyctae_ for the great beta reader service!** _*Thank you very much! You did an awesome job!*_

The one thing Romano truly loved about headphones was that they kept the world at bay. Whether he was actually listening to music or not didn't even matter. Most people had internalized long ago that headphones were an electronic 'Do Not Disturb'-sign, and hence spared the person wearing them any kind of unnecessary conversation. Therefore, putting on his headphones after a long hard working day had become a constant habit of Romano.

Given that today was one of those days where Romano's precious coffee break had been ruined by two mafiosi, who “just happened to be around” and “just wanted to say _ciao_ and have a little chat”, Romano decided to forgo the music in order to starve out his latent headache. Muted headphones on, he made his way down the busy street, past crwoded restaurants and shops, and around the corner. Escorted by his outstretched shadow and the late yet still comfortably warm sun, he headed towards a bus stop at the end of a quiet side road. With the exception of two women, whose lower legs and feet were almost completely swallowed by an ocean of jam-packed shopping bags, the stop was deserted. Both women acknowledged Romano's arrival with a brief glance and a kind nod in his direction. Assuming his ears were blocked with music, they continued their conversation uninhibited as if no one was around while Romano checked his cellphone.

Aside from too many unread business emails, there were only two notifications begging for his attention. One was from the terribly annoying Whatsapp group Feli had somehow tricked Romano into joining—as if he was interested in cheesy photos of Feli and that stupid potato bastard! The only reason the older Italy brother stayed in this dreadful group was because otherwise he had to deal with Feliciano's awfully effective crying.  
To prevent the emergence of any useless drama in advance, Romano posted an ugly emoji in response to the couple's latest photo, skipped the other Whatsapp notification, and switched to Instagram. Surprise, surprise: his feed had once again been spammed with food porn and fitness updates by America; on Twitter, the usual exchange of verbal blows between various nations was taking place. Great. Just great. If Romano didn't already have a headache, he surely would have one by now!

At least there was still the unread Whatsapp notification that he had ignored up until now, which informed him about a message he had received this morning from Spain. It was the kind of message that Romano got far too often and that usually began with a cheerful _**Hola Lovi :D ¿Qué tal?**_ It was also the kind of message Romano typically ignored all day long, so Spain wouldn't get the impression that Romano had nothing better to do than exchange messages with his former caretaker.  
In the evening, however, the personification of South Italy often found himself calling Spain after realizing they had just been chatting for twenty minutes straight, and Romano found the activity of chatting tiring as hell, or as Spain always put it: Romano was still a lazy ass at heart and, as such, preferred speaking to typing. Needless to say that Romano always disagreed, even though he knew that it was true and, even worse, that Spain would take advantage of Romano's denial by asking innocently, “So you just called to hear my voice then?” Whereupon Romano would threaten to hang up but never did, because Spain's light-hearted laughter felt too much like home for Romano to turn his back on it.  
Damn, if only he was home or already back in his apartment, Romano thought to himself while waiting for the bus. His apartment may lack the incomparable feeling of home, but at least he could make himself some delicious pasta there and—

“...don't know what to do anymore. Most days she barely eats, and I haven't even noticed until very recently! I mean, she's always been talkative, but it's gotten to the point where she's talking non-stop during mealtimes. Really, all she does is talking and cutting her food into teeny-weeny pieces she shoves around on her plate. And after she's taken a few bites, she says she's full.“

That was normal, thought Romano, whose attention had been caught by the older woman's distressed voice. He had witnessed this sort of behavior for centuries on end.

“Or she tells me she isn't hungry, because she has already eaten at a friend's.”

So what? That was normal as well. Romano couldn't even recall the number of mealtimes during which he had been the only one to eat although Spain had also been present.

“But I'm afraid she's lying to me...”

“Have you ever tried to talk to her about it?”

What was there to talk about?

“Of course, but all she ever says is that I'm imagining things. Well, I surely don't imagine her recent weight loss! And last week, I wanted to put the freshly washed laundry in her wardrobe and guess what I found. Shoe boxes! She never keeps her shoes or her shoe boxes in her wardrobe. She has a separate rack for them.”

“So?”

“The boxes were filled with all kinds of sweets: chips, muffins, chocolate bars...”

“Oh...”

Why oh? That was perfectly normal, too! Romano had grown up finding hidden goodies in Spain's drawers, sideboards, suitcases, wooden chests, and whatever else offered a decent stash. It had been quite handy for whenever little Romano had been bored; he had searched the large mansion in order to spend the rest of the day snacking on Spain's hidden treasures. Spain had never seemed to mind, or at least that was what the younger nation had always believed, since Spain had kept quiet about the whole matter. Keeping quiet about Romano doing things he wasn't supposed to do wasn't Spain's style at all, so Romano had thought it to be okay.  
In fact, he had played it like a game. As soon as he had noticed that the sweets—mostly hard candy—were gone, he had felt challenged. Usually, his searches had ended successfully. Some days, however, even his greatest efforts had turned out to be in vain. These had been the days Romano silently cursed Spain for being such a greedy bastard. Thankfully, there had always been enough food in the kitchen and pantry to feed an army, so Romano had very well known where to go to help himself. Still, the candy hide-and-seek had been far more entertaining than grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl. Plus, it had made Romano feel special, because Spain had never asked anyone else to join their game. It had been—and still was—their exclusive little secret.

“Yeah, I'm really worried about her. I know she sometimes overeats, like last Friday for example. We went to that new all you can eat restaurant that had just reopened in our neighborhood, and she really enjoyed the food. I haven't seen her eating like that in months! It was like she was a totally different person!”

Again: completely normal. The mealtimes during which Spain ate twice as much as an average adult had always been just as common as the mealtimes during which he hardly touched his food. Being a picky eater with a big appetite himself, Romano had never questioned any of Spain's eating habits. They had just been there, right in front of Romano, day after day after day. . .

“She even had dessert, although she usually avoids all kinds of unhealthy and fatty foods. Or at least that's what I thought until I found the shoe boxes. And then there was last Friday: she excused herself right after she had finished dessert and went straight to the bathroom. I'm afraid she threw up.”

Which was totally normal too for someone who eats like a horse. Romano remembered several nights in which he had caught the intense sounds of Spain's retching through the locked bathroom door. Too much food, too much wine, or too much of both of them.  
Romano hadn't really been able to care back then, for he had always had a much more pressing problem—namely his full bladder. In theory, he could have easily gone into the garden or all the way down the hall to the next bathroom, but for fear of the dark, he had always walked straight back into bed. These had been the nights that had never ended well for his bed linen. But each time Spain had complained about Romano's little accident in the morning, Romano had either lied his way out of the embarrassing situation or he had screamed that it had only happened because Spain had been in the bathroom puking his guts out. Whereas the absurd lies had only ever brought Spain's anger to the boil, the blunt truth had made him drop the subject immediately. Scratching his neck rather nervously, he had mumbled a quick apology before bursting into a weird laughter. The wine, the wine. According to Spain, it had always been the wine's fault, and his stressed stomach's, of course. Oh Dios, these damn stomach pains!  
Romano hadn't known how to respond to this, so he had either punched his tiny fist against Spain's tibia, or if Spain had dared to pick him up, Romano had poked his right index finger into one of Spain's slightly swollen cheeks before wrapping his arms around Spain's neck. It had been Romano's way of saying, 'You better get better soon, dumbass!'

“You should try talking to her again. Eating disorders are very dangerous illnesses. You two should go see a doctor as soon as possible. Your figlia needs professional treatment. The sooner, the better, I think.”

Wait! _**What?**_  
Doctor? Professional treatment? Dangerous illness?  
Romano could scarcely believe his ears! How was all this a threatening illness, let alone an eating disorder? Weren't eating disorders these strange illnesses that caused young people to starve themselves to death or to make themselves sick after every single meal?  
Burning up with confusion, Romano tried his best to get his head around the fact that what he had always considered to be normal was actually everything but normal. Simultaneously, he had a hard time pretending that a non-existent wall of music had just prevented him from learning that not only the daughter of one of the women was critically ill, but so was Spain!

But....but... _how?_ Spain wasn't a walking skeleton and Romano knew for sure that neither overeating nor puking were part of Spain's daily routine. Besides, Spain loved food! From a traditional paella to home-grown vegetables to crema catalana, he had a great passion for cooking and practically beamed with joy whenever an opportunity to delight some guests with a home-cooked meal opened up. So how the hell could the bastard have an eating disorder? That was simply impossible!

Or was it?

To be honest, Romano had never wasted a single thought on the fact that the naturally communicative Spaniard spent some meals talking instead of eating, or that he sometimes came home in the evening and refused to eat at all, because he had run into someone—an old acquaintance, a good friend, an important business partner—who he already had dinner with.  
Romano had also never taken much notice of the variation in Spain's portion sizes. He just knew that some days, Spain inhaled food like a vacuum cleaner. But for some unknown reason, Romano was relatively optimistic that Spain had learned his lesson about overeating by now. Because who in his right mind wouldn't have done so after all these years? Not even Spain was that stupid. Besides, he had never made himself sick on purpose!

...Or had he?

All of a sudden, Romano was not so certain anymore. The queasy suspicion that the hidden sweets had never been part of a game specifically designed for him, but a mere symptom of Spain's illness hit the Italian hard. Thunderstruck, he couldn't do anything but watch as the two women picked up their shopping bags and got on the bus that had just stopped in front of them. With a hissing sound, the bus's doors closed and the vehicle made its way down the street. It wasn't until the bus had completely disappeared from Romano's view that he slowly recovered from his shock and his anger sat in.

Spain! That damn bastard! That filthy liar! That cunning little bitch!

Not only did Romano miss the bus because of that damn idiot, but the jerk had also managed to make a fool of Romano since day one! God, that couldn't be true! It just couldn't be!

Seething with rage, Romano kicked against a small, sun-bleached juice pack resting peacefully on the sidewalk. The pack's involuntary journey across the street was accompanied by a wide range of foul swearwords that Romano couldn't hold back. The echo came promptly as a stout woman living on the 3rd floor peered through her open window and told Romano to shut his dirty mouth, or she'd come down and gave him the answer he deserved. Turning as red as a tomato, Romano quickly ducked his head, thinking that all this was so typical of Spain! The idiot didn't even have to be around to cause Romano trouble!

Continuing to curse the older nation—albeit through hissed teeth now—Romano slumped down on the bus stop's narrow bench. With slightly shaking hands, he started flicking through his photo gallery, which was as frequently filled with new additions by Spain as by the lame Whatsapp chat. So here he was, frozen in countless selfies: Spain.  
Spain smiling.  
Spain smiling for no concrete reason again.  
Spain making a silly face.  
Spain half-hidden behind his favorite scarf.  
Spain happily embracing his Christmas treats.  
Spain greeting the camera with a cup of coffee in the morning and hair that wasn't supposed to look that perfectly styled when you've just gotten out of bed on New Year's Day.  
Spain petting an affable cat on the street.  
Spain chilling in a hammock.  
Spain proudly presenting a basket of freshly picked tomatoes.  
Spain wearing a hideous t-shirt and a totally ridiculous pair of heart-shaped sunglasses, but radiating an attractiveness that couldn't be ruined by any fashion faux pas, ever.  
…

Romano wished he could smash the display and strangle the other nation right here and now, because even though the fluctuation in weight was almost nonexistent, Spain's face spoke volumes about it. Roughly eight months ago, his sun-kissed, clear-cut features had appeared sharp as razor blades, whereas lately, his smile resided in oddly puffy cheeks. The faster Romano turned back the hands of time by switching through the photos, the more apparent it became: Spain went through somewhat regular intervals of gaining and losing a few pounds. What irritated the Italian the most about all this was how familiar he was with each and every version of Spain's face. The older nation didn't look sick on any of the photos—at least not to Romano, who had witnessed the subtle changes so many times in the course of his life that he had become completely blind to them. These changes couldn't be compared to the drastic effects wars, famines, or domestic political tensions had on a nation's body. They were something entirely different, and they left Romano incredibly furious. For if the two women were right, then Spain had raised Romano to be an oblivious ally in a game that wasn't supposed to be played by anyone! What the fuck was Spain thinking to drag Romano into this?! Really, Antonio should be ashamed of himself! Never saying a word, just taking advantage of young Lovino's naivety by weakly laughing it off whenever Romano had bitterly complained about the occupied bathroom. Reviewing the many mornings from the vantage point of the present, Romano could only conclude that it seemed like Spain had indeed been … ashamed.

Oh, fuck! Squeezing his eyes shut, Romano stopped browsing through his gallery and began tapping his cellphone against his forehead. He had been so stupid. So very stupid. But it still didn't make any sense to him. None of it! If Spain was really feeling ashamed, then why hadn't he stopped long ago? Why was he still hoarding and hiding food? Or praising the food on his plate to the highest heavens, but leaving half of his meal untouched? And what about all the days on which he ate as if there was no tomorrow? Romano's headache intensified as he rummaged through his memories, trying to recall the last time Spain had disappeared in the bathroom after wolfing down an enormously large amount of food. It had probably been a good while ago, and Romano wasn't even sure Spain had actually made himself sick. How was he supposed to know anyway? It wasn't like he was following his old boss around like a dog or something!

Also, weren't eating disorders about losing as much weight as possible? Considering that Spain was neither emaciated nor generally dissatisfied with his outer appearance, it was rather unlikely that he was suffering from an eating disorder. He didn't even seem to be bothered by his weird eating habits at all!  
Was there any chance that eating disorders were only a danger to humans, but not to nations? After all, human bodies were much more fragile. Maybe Spain could handle things just fine and thus didn't see the point in changing his behavior, or was he trapped in a vicious circle he couldn't break free from, just like the woman's daughter? But what was so hard about adjusting portion sizes and stopping making oneself sick after eating?

Tired of the nagging questions and endless speculations, Romano shoved the term “eating disorder” into Google's search bar.  
After 10 minutes, he wished he had never had an acute reason to educate himself on the topic.  
After 15 minutes, he hated Spain with all his heart.  
After 35 minutes, when Romano had finally closed his apartment door behind him, he was too upset to answer Spain's message. He just knew he had to go check on Antonio as soon as possible. Problem was that Romano had no clue how to do so without exploding the second he caught sight of Spain. He was so angry at the damn bastard!

God, he was so worried about Spagna.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, thank you all for reading and reviewing! I didn't expect so many people to be interested in this story and I hope you'll all like the new chapter, which turned out longer than planned. What can I say? Romano has a lot on his mind~

Plagued by a lack of recuperative sleep, Romano leaned back in his seat and felt the air conditioner's steady, cold breaths rolling over his exhausted body. Under the clear blue sky, countless vehicles scurried around Madrid's airport like eager ants, carrying out their work by chauffeuring people to their desired destinations. The day, albeit still young, would clearly grow into a superb May day showing off with at least 26 °C and a breeze so gentle one could not help but fall for the city known as _Villa y Corte_.

Romano suppressed a persistent yawn while relaxing his tensed shoulders. His tired glare alternated between the pop music-playing radio and the merry taxi driver, who hummed to the feel-good songs whenever he wasn't trying to make conversation with his passenger.

Even though said passenger was definitely not in the mood for small talk, Romano couldn't blame the man for treating him more like an inhabitant than a tourist. From the driving instructions Romano had given when getting into the car, the driver had instantly deduced that Romano knew the area like the back of his hand. Tourists and business travelers normally lacked such specific knowledge of the city, and Romano's intention had indeed been to be brought directly to Spain's address without tempting the driver to add a little sightseeing tour to the route. Not only would the latter be reflected in the price, but it would also extend the driving time and thus exacerbate the nerve-racking mixture of impatience and nervousness already threatening to tear Romano apart.

Since last Wednesday, the unbearable tension had been building up in him like an imminent volcanic eruption, and it was only getting worse the closer he got to Spain's house. The fact that it was 10:30 am, and thus extremely unlikely that Spain was home, had no alleviating effect whatsoever on the feeling of guilt sitting in Romano's stomach like a burning hot lava lake. It shouldn't have taken him so long to scrape enough courage together to book a stupid flight to Madrid!

The shameful thought clogged the Italian's throat and pressed the air out of his lungs. Swallowing hard, he reached for his cellphone. Up until now, the electronic device had rested in Romano's right jacket pocket like a body in a crypt, staying deadly silent about the fact that it had resurrected Romano's bad conscious time and again during the past few days.  
On Friday, after Romano had spent the second sleepless night in a row conducting online research on eating disorders, his cellphone had spoiled his morning with another casual greeting from Spain. On Saturday, it had melodically called for Romano to answer Spain's call, and on Monday, when Romano had still been on a complete loss on how to talk to the Spaniard, another Whatsapp message had ambushed him:

**_You too busy to have a little chit-chat with boss? 💔_ **

Romano was sat at his desk, digesting a complaint he had just received for sending an email with a confidential attachment to the wrong recipient. The strict admonition had only been the peak of his iceberg of problems, which had been growing uncontrollably since he had accidentally eavesdropped on the two women at the bus stop last week. Good God, he had never meant to avoid Antonio for so long! Somehow it had just...happened.  
With eyes stinging equally from too little sleep and too much concern, Romano had almost burned his cellphone to ashes. The only thought that had been running through his head while he had been staring at Spain's message with the stupid broken heart emoji had been:  
'Yes, _you_ and your goddamn lies are keeping me busy 24/7, asshole!'

At some point, the display light had switched off and Romano had to admit to himself once more that he still lacked the perfect strategy for successfully tackling the issue. Not because he hadn't thought about it, but because his mind had turned into a stage on which his fantasy had performed every possible scenario of confrontation—and not a single one of them had ended happily ever after. Needless to say, the more dramas Romano's head had produced, the more frightened Romano had become until he had been so incredibly frightened that he had neither been able to sleep nor focus on his work anymore. Instead, his throat tightened and his heart ached whenever Spain's name appeared on the display.

Romano would surely still be sat in Rome and suffering all the same if it hadn't been for his brother. Just back from a short but photo-rich holiday in Berlin, Veneziano's curiosity had immediately been awoken when Romano had been looking at his cellphone as if he had seen a ghost. Alarmed, the personification of North Italy had leaned over in his chair and spotted Spain's messages before the chat had fallen into darkness. Romano, however, had been so wrapped up in his worries that he hadn't even noticed his brother's prying eyes. Naturally then, he had visibly flinched at the shrill voice right next to his ear, asking him why on earth he was ignoring his _fidanzato_.

Just the word _fidanzato_ had made Romano feel as if a bomb had detonated in his stomach, shredding his insides into bloody pieces. Feliciano wasn't supposed to call Spain Romano's fiancé, for even though Spain had proposed to Romano about half a year ago, their relationship hadn't progressed to the romantic level yet, which was entirely Spain's fault. The idiot hadn't made the slightest move on Romano. He hadn't even tried to kiss him once! And to top it all off, Antonio hadn't mentioned the marriage since the day he had proposed to Lovino!

The younger nation had started to believe that it was all his fault because he hadn't just said yes, but Spain's clumsy proposal had come right out of the blue! To say that Romano had been surprised would be the understatement of the century! Embarrassed and uncertain whether Spain had been serious about the matter, Romano had clung to the piece of pizza he had been eating and had instinctively swallowed the excited _**yes!**_ laying on his tongue. Then, he had miraculously managed to mumble an apparently indifferent “Minimum three meals a day and a nap with pasta” without tripping over his rocky heartbeat.  
He had said so because the question wasn't _if_ he wanted to be with Antonio forever, but _how_ Lovino imagined their life to look like. Minimum three meals a day and a nap with pasta were a safe guarantee that the two of them would be spending time together on a regular basis.

For as long as Romano could remember, he had hated the days when he had nothing better to do than waiting for Spain to come home. He had hated cooking for himself, eating by himself, and sleeping by himself while never knowing when and in what state Spain would return. Both the uncertainty and the distance had made young Romano sick. First with plain anger and then with a sadness so deeply rooted in him that some nights he had been close to choking on his own tears.  
Since early childhood, the acute fear of being forgotten or replaced had followed Romano around like a shadow and Spain had worked this out rather sooner than later, but not the smooth way. The two of them, they had gotten to know each other through countless arguments, fights, and tantrums Romano had thrown, and Spain had never let things go until he had gained at least a rudimentary understanding of Romano's true intentions.

So judging by the fact that Spain hadn't posed a single question in reply to Romano's glorious “Minimum three meals a day and a nap with pasta”, Romano had no doubt that the other nation had interpreted his answer correctly. The problem was just that Spain wasn't acting on it. Perhaps he was waiting for Romano to make the first move? Or perhaps—and this was Romano's biggest fear—Spain had only meant to tease him and now let his unusual passivity speak for itself?

Whatever the case was, it hurt to be ignored. Yet, Romano had been doing exactly the same. Due to Veneziano's thought-provoking word choice, he had realized it. Not only with regard to his and Antonio's relationship had Lovino been passive, he had simply expected the more experienced Spaniard to suit the action to the word, but Lovino's cowardice had also prevented him from putting his plan of checking on Antonio into practice. Romano still couldn't explain how it could have come this far, though. When Spain had needed help in the past, Romano had always acted on instinct, irrespective of the circumstances. As a child, he had tried to defend Spain against a foreign soldier, and not too long ago, he had even fought the mafia to help the stupid jerk.

With this in mind, yesterday afternoon, Romano had closed his laptop and announced that he needed to take some days off. This had resulted in Feliciano completely freaking out (“ **What? _Right now?!_** But it's Monday and you know how awful the workload on Mondays always is, fratello! You can't leave me alone with all these papers and emails and meetings we need to take care of! Especially not when I'm still feeling sick from all the beer Germany and I had yesterday!”) and Romano friendly reminding his brother of their not so fair share of off days this year (“Don't gimme that shit! You already had twice as many off days as me this year! So you'll take over for the rest of the week, capito!? And why did you drink that potato bastard's beer again, damn it!? It always gives you the worst hangovers!”).

During the bus ride home, Romano had finally done the flight booking before calming down the still panicking Feli over the phone by promising him some support with the electronic stack of emails. After all, emails couldn't care less about Romano's whereabouts.

As the taxi now left the highway and passed through one of Madrid's calm outskirts, Romano reread Spain's last messages and could no longer hold back. His thumbs flew over the virtual keyboard, creating the long overdue reply.

**_Of course I was busy, idiota! Just in case you forgot: Feli was on holiday AGAIN, so I had a shit lot to do AGAIN while he was getting drunk as a skunk on that damn potato bastard's beer AGAIN....._ **

Putting all the blame on Veneziano wasn't fair, but then again the younger Italian tortured his brother more than enough with his constant photo uploads on Whatsapp and Instagram. Thus, Romano decided they were even for now and focused on what was really important:

**_Sorry I didn't call or text back, though. Let's talk tonight!_ **

In-person, not on the phone. Spain just didn't know this yet, and Romano dearly hoped they wouldn't end up arguing because of the food thing. Or the wedding thing. Or anything at all.

Gnawing on the inside of his left cheek, he clicked yet again into the text field and eyed the small red heart emoji he used so rarely. For a few seconds, hesitance held is thumb captive in the air, before the tip of his thumb fell down on the screen and transported an intact ❤ into the chat. Ugh. Now his message looked as if it had been written by a moody teenage girl. Fantastic. To spare himself the embarrassing sight, Romano put his phone back into his pocket and spent the rest of the taxi ride staring persistently out of the window.

When the taxi finally stopped, the 16th-century building—that Spain had moved into so long ago Romano couldn't pinpoint a date to it—laid in silence. After Romano paid the taxi driver, he opened the iron gate embedded in the stone wall and crossed the driveway.  
Compared to the magnificent royal palace Spain used to occupy when he had taken Romano in, this building was little, despite its impressive arched ceilings, thick stone walls, and outstretched backyard. Originally a part of an impressive monastery, which had first fallen victim to the destructive power of a severe fire caused by a thunderstorm and then the big dent in Spain's finances, the remains Spain had made his home from held the steadfast confidence of an unbending survivor. The monastery's once opulent inner courtyard with its fancy fountain had shrunken down to a paved terrace transitioning into the garden, which was kept as diligently in shape by Spain as was the house's interior.

Against Romano's expectations, Spain had never considered moving into an apartment in Madrid's lively city center. He would rather spend more time on the road than giving up his home with its fertile, yet maintenance-intensive garden. Romano had to admit that the tomatoes and the orange trees as well as the wide variety of herbs growing there were definitely worth it. Plus, gardening had always been a way for Spain to set a good end to a day crammed with political talks and actions.

By following Spain around in the garden and giving him a helping hand here and there, Romano had discovered that gardening had a calming effect on himself, too. Without giving it much thought then, he had translated into action what Spain had taught him by maintaining some flowers and herbs on the cozy balcony of his apartment in Rome. He just hoped that Feli wouldn't forget to water the plants again.

The brothers no longer shared an apartment but were still next-door neighbors to avoid any unpleasant questions. They had tried to get along for quite a while but had major difficulties right from the start due to their contrary upbringings. It hadn't helped the situation that Romano had confused the nagging feeling in his chest, which had emerged shortly after moving out of Spain's house, for a twisted kind of homesickness. How could he, recently unified with his brother, long to be Spanish territory again? That was totally inappropriate for a nation who had waged war for his independence!

Romano had considered it best to suppress the feeling. The feeling hadn't approved of Romano's decision, though. As if it had wanted to take revenge on him, it had made Romano's and Veneziano's life a living hell. For the worse Romano's “homesickness” had gotten, the more aggressive Romano had become, and the more Veneziano had suffered under Romano's irrational outbursts. It had taken a fight like never before between the brothers for Romano to get the whole picture: He, Lovino Vargas, the personification of South Italy, wasn't a traitor. He cared deeply about his brother and his people and he had no desire to give up his independence again. He had just the biggest possible crush on Antonio one could imagine.

How the fuck this had happened Romano still lacked a logical explanation for. Hoping that distraction would be the cure, he had worked extra hard for his people and had even moved into America's house for some time. Neither distance nor avoidance had helped, though. Sooner or later, Romano had always ended up getting in touch with Antonio again, whether it be over the phone, after a conference, or on their rare off days. To this day, neither one of them had ever dared or cared to bring up the question of why Romano had kept a key to Spain's house after moving out. It had simply felt like the right thing to do at the time and it definitely came in handy today.

Upon opening the front door and being embraced by the familiar atmosphere, Romano closed his eyes for a moment. His lungs seemed to unfold as if he were magically recovering from a life-threatening case of tuberculosis. The absence of any noises assured him that Spain was indeed out. The blinds, all neatly closed, prevented the heat from penetrating the building and reduced the interior to a world of dark-tinted shadows that Romano could blindly maneuver through.

Since there was no need to do so now, Romano tapped on the light switch, took off his jacket, and left his suitcase by the door, before walking straight into the kitchen. A thin voice, situated right behind his sternum, still claimed that everything was **fine**. Whatever Romano had heard the women say, whatever he had witnessed over the centuries, whatever he had read on the internet, none of it had anything to do with Antonio! It was all a huge misunderstanding and as soon as Romano had inspected the fridge, opened the pantry, and looked through Spain's stuff, he would curse himself for getting worked up about nothing.

With his heart pondering at a painfully fast rate, Romano curled the fingers of his right hand around the fridge's handle, held his breath, and then came face to face with the inside of a fridge holding no fresh foods. No eggs, no milk, no cheese, no butter, no meat... It was a visual tragedy muzzling the protest leaking from Romano's heart.

As if he had burnt himself on the sight, the Italian instantly closed the fridge door and drew the dishwasher open. Apart from some dirty cups and glasses, nothing gave the tiniest hint that Spain had recently cooked. The stove was as clean as the pans and pots in the kitchen cabinets, the trashcan was empty, the fruit bowl accommodated two apples and a peach, a plate of ripe tomatoes stood like a manifest on the kitchen counter, and the shelves in the pantry presented the usual range of rice, pasta, canned foods, bottled vegetables, and cartons of long-life milk.

Although Romano's stubborn heart still refused to fall silent, he felt his hope sink in light of the high probability that Spain had lately neither prepared nor consumed a solid meal. Romano couldn't help but wonder if this was the status quo when no-one else was around. His memory confirmed that this could indeed be the case, for when Romano had last said that he would come over visiting, Spain had mentioned something along the lines of having to do some grocery shopping before Romano's arrival. Back then, Romano hadn't given it much thought, but now he feared that Spain was either restricting his food intake or even starving himself.

The well-founded suspicion ballooned up Romano's bad conscience. Maybe Spain would have eaten properly if Romano had been brave enough to reply to his messages or answer his call? Or maybe he would have lied his head off, just like he always did. There was no way to tell. The only thing Romano knew for sure was that Spain hadn't eaten regularly when the two of them used to live under the same roof, and it was rather unlikely that the lack of company had a positive effect on his eating habits. If anything, being all alone granted Spain's eating disorder the freedom to do whatever it liked whenever it liked. Romano had learned that much from his internet research. So of course, answering Spain's call would have given Romano the opportunity to ask what Spain had for dinner, but from abroad, Romano wasn't able to control any of Spain's statements.

God, how sad was it that Romano had come to mistrust his former caretaker about something as simple as eating?

Running a hand through his dark hair, Romano sighed and retreated from the kitchen like a defeated army from the battlefield. The clicking sound of his posh leader shoes on the stone floor seemed unnaturally loud as he passed through the hall.

On the doorstep of Spain's bedroom, Romano paused. His gaze scanned the room with the heavy wooden furniture that had grown so dear to the Spaniard. From the massive chest standing at the foot of the large bed to the commode on the wall and the desk under the window—everything was in its usual place, thus radiating the same casual tidiness Spain had always valued at home. He had even used to tidy up young Romano's room, probably in the hopes that Romano would follow his example and keep the whole place squeaky clean.

The few times Romano had tried to make himself useful around the house, though, he had failed miserably. Butterfingered and inexperienced, his efforts had ended with broken vases, fallen over bookcases, and Spain being mad about the chaos. Yes, instead of appreciating Romano's hard work, Spain had nothing better to do than scolding the younger nation. Unable to tolerate the frustration borne from this injustice, Romano had quickly given up his cleaning attempts altogether. It hadn't been until he had witnessed how many lectures and beatings Spain had endured to keep Romano by his side that Romano had given it another try. He had wanted his boss to return to a home he felt comfortable in; more so, he had felt the need to give Spain a good reason to look forward to coming home to him. That Lovino himself could ever be reason enough had been completely out of his imagination.

Stepping into Spain's bedroom, Romano did his best to leave the depressing belief that had left its traces on his whole life behind and targeted the heavy desk. As he opened the upper drawer, its contents screamed, “jackpot!” On the high-quality stationery, next to the magnetic compass that had navigated Spain safely home time and again, various packages of Chapelas, Huesitos, Valors, and other chocolate bars piled up. The collection was both impressive and alarming and matched the contents of the second drawer.

Romano saved himself the time to check the other two desk drawers and went over to the bed. As always, the wooden chest was locked, and also as always, the key was poorly hidden behind the bed's left front post and the wall. Romano unlocked the sturdy padlock, and bingo! On the neatly folded clothes, he found bag after bag filled with chips, cookies, crackers, and churros.

Next to the food sat an enthroned handcrafted box of jewelry, holding wide golden signet rings and ostentatious earrings that Spain hadn't worn since he had lost his supremacy at sea. In addition, the box was home to a golden necklace with at least one coin from every place on earth Spain had ever ruled over. Upon being lifted up, the coins' clinking jingle hypnotized Romano like the song of a siren.  
For a moment, he forgot the sheer weight of the necklace that he could still remember completing Spain's proud appearance so, so many years ago. Following an inner urge, Romano got up from his knees and walked over to the large mirror hanging above the commode. His hands held the necklace in place; the coins hovered right about his purple shirt like hanged men whose rotting bodies were mocked by the wind.

The sudden realization that the necklace Romano used to be so fascinated with had never looked any different sent cold shivers up and down his spine. How often had he sat on Spain's lap, playing with the coins and dreaming of growing strong enough to wear this symbol of power? Since then, Romano had surely grown up, but he hadn't grown into the necklace. It still made him look like a child playing with his father's clothes: small, weak, naïve. Yes, even as an adult Romano had been too naïve to notice what had been going on all these years—that Spain had lied to him, that Romano had never been meant to hunt down the hidden candy, that Spain had only tolerated Romano's interference because it had been the easiest way out for him. What a damn shithead!  
Deep inside Romano's stomach, in this red hot lava lake, the feeling of betrayal was still alive and kicking and screaming that just because Spain couldn't eat normally didn't mean he had the right to lie to Romano like that!

Turning angrily on his heel, Romano returned the necklace and slammed the box shut. Afterwards, he closed the chest, locked it carefully, and shoved the key back into its hiding place. There were a whole lot more spots where Spain used to hide food, but Romano had seen enough for the time being. All this candy, it must be “binge food.” Romano had encountered the term during his research, and he had no doubt about the candy's purpose. He just wasn't sure if Spain only binged on it or if he purged it, too. Taking Spain's latest photo on Whatsapp into account, though, it was more likely that he made himself sick as well.

So, if Romano was putting the pieces correctly together, then the puzzle looked as follows: Spain was currently not eating much or any proper food at all, he binged on candy, and then, either occasionally or regularly, made himself sick.

How long Spain had been following this pattern, Romano couldn't assess. The whole eating disorder-thing was still a complete mystery to him. Eating disorders were mental illnesses, and as such, far more complex than Romano had initially thought. They weren't some kind of diet trend that had gotten a little out of hand. They were horrible addictions manifested in harmful eating habits and fueled by pathological thought patterns. Romano thought back to his research, remembering that not every person suffering from an eating disorder was dangerously underweight due to starvation. In truth, people affected by eating disorders could be any weight. What these people had in common was that they engaged in a range of disordered eating behaviors: restrictive eating, binging, self-induced vomiting, starvation, chewing and spitting food, or swallowing appetite suppressants, laxatives, or hormone preparations. Some people purged the calories they consumed by excessively working out. Some ate inedible items, and some had a fixation about healthy foods. Going through phases characterized by different symptoms was rather the norm than the exception for affected persons, and the lines between the different types of eating disorders were somewhat blurry.

In any case, seeking professional help was highly recommended to recover from an eating disorder since eating disorders were maintained by deeper-seated problems than the mere desire to lose some weight. But Romano was neither a psychiatrist nor a dietician, and even though he had spent hours on end educating himself on eating disorders, he didn't feel equipped to deal with the situation. Really, all he could do was putting his hypothesis to the test and see where it would lead them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there'll be Spain in the third chapter. I promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm a terribly slow writer, but I'd really appreciate some feedback. So if you liked this chapter, please let me know in the comments below ;-)


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